


Of Desperate Pleas & Apologies

by ineedtokeepdrinking



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 12:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12108867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedtokeepdrinking/pseuds/ineedtokeepdrinking
Summary: Set in Season 1, as a closer look into the kiss from 1x08.Rating somewhere between M and E, E just to be safe.





	Of Desperate Pleas & Apologies

When you kiss her for the first time, it feels like fireworks, or something equally as cliché. You think it’s good, think it’s perfect.

It is all in your head.

 

When she pulls away and you open your eyes, you realize that hers remained open. 

How can she see the fireworks if her eyes don’t close? It is then that you realize you were mistaken—she has not seen the colors.

 

* * *

 

When she kisses _you_ for the first time, you go blank. You cannot remember how you felt, what you were thinking, what her skin was like beneath the pads of your fingers. Your brain goes completely quiet. You cannot even remember the last time your mind was truly empty. Between PhDs and illegal cloning experiments, beautiful French women and the death of your sister, immediately followed by the appearance of another—you cannot remember a time before your thoughts were twisting around themselves, moving like snakes poised to bite.

 

You don’t breathe when she kisses you, you _do_ remember that. It is before your lungs begin to falter at the hands of an unknown illness, before deep breaths become a subtle labor. So you inhale, her lips touch yours, and you forget to exhale, fully losing track of reality. Something small and sinister in the back of your mind tells you that you’re still holding that same breath.

The blackout ends when she pulls your shirt from your frame. Suddenly it hits you- this is not just a kiss, this is not just her first kiss with a woman—with _you_ —this is more. You are down to a tank top that you did not expect her to see you in, and she has slipped her own sweater over her head.

It is a train barreling down the tracks, a bus without breaks, and they both crash when she first sees you in your bra. She stops, pauses for far too long, and you cannot help but think of twisted frames and broken metal and the white-hot burn of gasoline fires. She is unsure—and maybe she is straight and none of this is real, for all you know—and so this will end, and you do not think you can escape without your name finding its way to the top of a casualty list.

And then her hands find your shoulders, and her eyes are wide, and her palms slide so _so_ softly over your breasts, and for a moment you think that watching her face is the best part of this experience. _A scientist,_ you remind yourself, _she craves knowledge, and she is learning._ She is open-mouthed and breathing quickly and her hands are shy and nervous, and you are far too afraid to push her faster than she is comfortable with.

“Can I take this off?” she whispers, eyes still locked onto her own hands covering your chest. You think that maybe she is wondering if she is dreaming too.

“I… yeah,” you breathe, “if you want to,” like it’s a question, like you aren’t sure either.

She reaches for the clasp behind you, and then bites her bottom lip as her hands pause. _Maybe she’s changed her mind,_ you think. _Maybe this was a mistake._

But then she pulls her own tank top off, and reaches behind herself, undoing her bra in one motion that your brain can hardly wrap itself around. She’s bare, in front of you. She’s nearly naked, _for you._

The realization hits you hard, leaves your eyes wide and your mouth agape as if you’re sixteen again and you’ve never seen another woman topless. She reaches toward you, clearly intent on evening the score and finally taking your bra off, but something primal takes over and you crash into her with an intensity that surprises you both.

 

Hands in her hair, pulling. Hands on her chest, sliding up her neck, holding her jaw. One arm wrapped around her so tightly that you both stumble when you try to shuffle your feet. Fingernails dragging down her back, moans you did not mean to release falling from your mouth as she pulls your bra aside, dips her head, and lets her lips do as they please.

 _Jesus,_ you manage to think, awestruck and completely at a loss for words. It’s almost laughable, truly. You, lost for words, at the hands of a woman who very clearly has never done this before, who very likely had never even kissed a woman before you jumped the gun and made a stupid assumption four days ago.

She does manage to get your bra off eventually, after a lot of kissing, and more than a few light moans falling from her gentle mouth that look like they surprise her as much as they set you on fire. There is a pause in which her fingers bunch in your skirt, and she very clearly thinks about sliding it off of you. This is something different.

Her tongue on your neck; that is not the same. Your nipples in her mouth (and _oh, God, wow._ ); that is not the same. 

If your skirt comes off, this is something else entirely. She pauses, and you save her.

“Come here,” you mumble into her mouth, hands pulling her by the waist. You pull her flush against you, the heat of your naked skin touching her bare chest, and for a minute your mind threatens to go blank again.

“Come,” you whisper, moving in small steps backward toward your open bedroom, toward the bed. Maybe you imagine it, but you think her lip quirks a bit at the double entendre.

You fall into bed together, comfortable and warm and soft, and you think only once about the fact that she is lying to you.

 

* * *

 

Her fingers involuntarily dig into the skin at the back of your neck, she pulls your hair and whispers demands, pleads with you, something French that sounds a lot like begging. When she climaxes, she whispers apologies for the pain she’s inflicted: these are English. You try not to read into that as a testament to the two sides of her—she is probably playing you with both of them. The apologies are short lived, though, because she leaves a dark hickey beneath soft bite marks on your shoulder when she comes the second time.

_This cannot be fake,_ you think, watching her eyes slowly refocus and meet your own. The sounds of her breathing hitching, of her lungs trying to catch up; they weave their way into your psyche. _This has to be something more._

 

She cries, after. It shakes you back to reality. _She isn’t real,_ you remind yourself. _She doesn’t feel this, too._

Your mind repeats the words, but your heart cannot believe them. You are watching the bus crash again, watching the trail derail, and you know what is going to happen—yet you still root for it to end happily. _Maybe,_ you consider, _the flames will simply envelop us both._

 

You return to your home, to her, ice cream in one hand and wallet in the other, and there she is. Lying in your bed, one leg thrown over your comforter, arms wrapped around the pillow beneath her head. She’s sleeping, she’s peaceful, and she looks innocent, docile, pure. For just a second, you hate her. Your heart skips several beats when you look at her, and your brain tells you that she is poison, that she is danger, that the religious zealot is not a threat if DYAD has already found a way to kill you from the inside out, with a weapon that wears mismatched underwear and leaves the faint smell of cigarette smoke in your room.

And yet, you slept with her anyway. And yet, you cannot tear your eyes from the soft way that her jawline meets her neck, you cannot stop yourself from pressing gentle lips to the corner of her mouth.

You taste salt. You try not to think of what her tears must mean.

 

She wakes from her nap much like a kitten, small noises of contentment and stretching of soft limbs. You pull off the coat you wore to the store, briefly forgetting that you had nothing but your underwear on underneath. Her eyes darken and pause on your bare stomach, and you have swiftly forgotten your train of thought again.

You forget everything except the way she licks her lips, everything except how she hooks a finger into the waistband of your underwear and pulls you toward her, between her legs as she’s seated on your bed.

What she lacks in experience she makes up for in determination— _after all, she is a scientist,_ you reason. She demands the opportunity to learn, and _God_ does she learn with enthusiasm.

Delphine Beraud lies between your legs, and lies to you through her teeth. Soon, you’ll have to face that reality. Tonight, you will ignore it.

 

* * *

 

You don’t believe in love, you don’t think.

But something has threaded its way into your being. Something with tendrils tense like guitar strings, thin and sharp and begging to cause damage. You are inundated with tripwires, and before long you will catch your foot on one and bring the whole thing crumbling down.

Until then, though, you ignore the sickly feeling in your stomach. You ignore the call from Sarah, and follow Delphine into your shower.

 _It has to be real,_ you repeat. There is nobody to convince but yourself, and you already know that it isn’t the truth. 

And then she falls to her knees in front of you, presses a kiss to the spot on your inner thigh that is quickly becoming her favorite, and for a moment you truly do not care about the rest of it.

 

Maybe it is a lie, and maybe she will break your heart in the end. 

You take a shuddering breath as your fingers tangle in her hair.

Your breath cuts short, body held at bay beneath an unsure mouth, and when her tongue slides between your legs, you decide that you will let things come as they may, sorting through the fallout later.


End file.
